


Flying and Flips

by myglassesaredirty



Series: Oh Boy, Kiddo [2]
Category: Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Dad!Tony, I Tried, Parent Tony Stark, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony is trying™, Tumblr request, flashbacks to intense scenes in hoco, only wanted to give up twenty times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-13
Updated: 2017-11-13
Packaged: 2019-02-01 23:11:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12714720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myglassesaredirty/pseuds/myglassesaredirty
Summary: He's good at hiding his trauma. Tony has to give him that, but that is the last thing Peter Parker should be good at. And, now, it's escalated into a situation that will hurt him.





	Flying and Flips

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr request from amber474:
> 
> "Peter being wary of flying due to the Toomes incident, so Tony eases him into enjoying that once more by letting him ride on his back as he flies, and he does tricks (loops, dives, etc.) to make it fun for Peter…?"
> 
> I'm like 90% sure this is not at all what you had in mind, but regardless. Feat. sleep deprivation because Peter is an idiot and I identify.

Sleeping has become a bit of a problem for Peter recently.

In fact, it’s the entire reason he’s doing his homework by the flashlight of his phone, glancing over his shoulder in hopes that no one else has woken up.

He’s tired and sore, and just the implication of having to “get up” in a few hours is too much for him.

The words in front of him blur into each other, and they’re fuzzy around the edges. He knows he’s not making sense with his answers, and the information from his textbook isn’t exactly processing in his brain.

He definitely needs to sleep.

Instead, he just rubs his eye with his fist and continues working.

He’s twirling his pen with his finger when he hears the soft padding down the hall. He drops his pen, leaping out of his chair and diving for his bed.

There’s a soft knock at his door, and he shuts his eyes tightly. The door creaks open, and Tony sticks his head in. He sighs softly and pads into the room, marking the page in Peter’s textbook and shutting it quietly. When he leaves, soft classical music starts playing.

He’s trying, and Peter has to give him that.

But he has so many assignments, and he’s procrastinated so much already, and he needs to turn it in by tomorrow…

But the piano keys are so gentle, and the melody just barely touches his ears, and it’s relaxing enough that, okay, maybe he can rest for a little bit.

He’s asleep before the song even finishes playing.

X-X-X-X-X

Tony wakes him up.

“Kid, come on. Get up. You have school today.”

Peter groans and burrows his face deeper into the pillow. “Can I just skip?”

“Nope. That’s not responsible. Up and at ‘em, kid.”

It’s every muscle in his body that protests against his decision to get up, and he turns his head into the crook of his elbow (the antecubital, he remembers from his anatomy textbook last night) as soon as he feels a cough coming on.

His coughs are violent, and he presses his free hand against his chest as he continues to hack. He vaguely knows that Tony can hear him, but he’s just trying to get that stupid phlegm out of the base of his throat.

He finally stops, and when he looks up through cough-induced tears, Tony’s staring at him with a creased brow.

“How much sleep did you get last night, kid?”

Peter shrugs guiltily. “Um…well, you see – I just…you know, I just –”

Tony holds up a finger. “Ah-ah. I cannot handle the inevitably terrible answer. Just eat some breakfast.”

He groans and slings his legs over the side of the bed, reaching up and massaging his shoulder as he follows Tony into the kitchen. His alarm hasn’t gone off yet, but hey, you know, school starts early and he’s about forty-five minutes away.

“Mr. Stark,” he says, sliding into his seat, “were you good at anatomy?”

“I was good at everything, kid.” Tony tosses him a pop tart before he reaches into the refrigerator. “Apple or orange juice?”

He thinks for a moment. “Apple. Please.” Tony nods and pulls out the bottle of apple juice, unscrewing the cap and pouring it into an empty glass. “D-do you think you could help me with anatomy? Like, just grasping concepts.”

Tony shakes his head once. “That’s not my department, kid. I wasn’t bad at it, but it wasn’t my strong suit. I’ll give you Bruce’s email. I can’t guarantee that he’ll answer, but it’s worth a shot.” He walks over to Peter and slides the glass of apple juice in front of him.

“Wait.” Peter looks at him with wide eyes. “Bruce? As in Bruce Banner? As in the Bruce Banner?”

Tony shrugs. “Of course. Who else would I be talking about?”

“That is so cool.”

Tony points a finger at him as he opens the refrigerator and puts the juice back in. “Stop drooling, kid. Eat your breakfast and get ready for school. I need to at least pretend to be a responsible adult.”

“Do I get to come back later?”

He shakes his head as he ushers Peter back to his room. “Nope. Next weekend. That’s the deal, kid.”

Peter yawns and shuffles down the hall. “Okay, Mr. Stark. Catch you later.”

X-X-X-X-X

He’s chewing on his pencil cap when a wadded-up piece of paper hits him in the head.

He just rolls his eyes and continues to work.

“Hey, loser,” Michelle says, dropping into the seat in front of him. “I thought spiders needed to eat.”

He glares at her. “Can it, will ya? This is a public place.”

“You are literally the most obvious human being I’ve ever met.”

Peter pulls his textbook closer to him. “I ate quickly. Why do you even care?”

“Because you seriously need to take care of yourself. I don’t know if the whole ‘everything-is-fine’ attitude comes from being around Tony Stark all the time, but regardless. You need to eat.”

Peter stares at her blankly for a moment. “I’ve never heard you say so many words at one time.”

She shrugs. “Don’t get used to it, loser.” She reaches into her backpack and pulls out a copy of Bleak House by Charles Dickens. “Now shut up. I want to finish this.”

He doesn’t argue.

The silence of the library is relaxing. The soft humming of the lights drowns out the chaos in his brain, and he focuses on the words in front of him. Michelle’s light breathing is soothing, and he can feel the tension ease from his shoulders.

He needs to start coming here more often.

They spend the rest of lunch in the library.

X-X-X-X-X

School is a cycle of routine: wake up, shower, eat, go to school, go to class, answer questions, pay attention, take tests, eat lunch, go back to class, sit through the eternity, occasionally throw a pep rally into that schedule, leave school, go heroing, come back home, do homework, go to sleep.

So, again: it’s a cycle.

Except the “sleeping” part is becoming a bit of a stretch for him nowadays.

(So is the heroing because of all the heights, but he’s learning to suck it up.)

So whenever Mr. Stark asks him why he’s not getting enough sleep, he chalks it up to studying. Which – to be fair – is an accurate statement. After all, he does have the SAT and the ACT coming up. He also has a test in at least one subject at least once a week.

So, yeah. He doesn’t have time to sleep. Sleep? Ha, what is sleep?

(He is literally so sleep deprived, he started crying when he thought his calculator had died; it wasn’t even turned on.)

Basically, he just needs some more sleep. He’s running on three hours from Sunday and nothing more.

(If Mr. Stark discovered that information, he would definitely freak out; Peter doesn’t plan on telling him.)

Papers are scattered across his desk, and he doesn’t really care, just so long as he has enough room to do his work. His math is finished, he knows his anatomy like the back of his hand – special shoutout to Dr. Bruce Banner –, he’s finished his history and English assignments and he’s pretty much taken care of every possible assignment he could have in the conceivable future.

Which is why he’s coming up with new projects.

You see, he, MJ, and Ned all handle sleepless nights differently. MJ either reads or goes way overboard with her classes (the teacher just. Gave up that day. There was no class because of the complexity of her questions). Ned binge watches his current TV show or builds LEGO sets. And, Peter…

Peter tries to impress Mr. Stark.

To be fair, he’s succeeded on more than one occasion.

It’s practically Friday morning, it’s late, he’s tired, and he’s only slept three hours since Sunday. THREE HOURS. That’s like, bordering on death.

But he knows if he falls asleep, only nightmares are going to come back to him, and he can’t do that to May. He can’t do that to himself. The only solution is to forego sleep as long as physically possible, and then his brain will be too exhausted to bring back those memories.

Hopefully. If he’s lucky.

He reaches up and readjusts his ear buds. The soft melody of Pachelbel’s music is gentle on his ears, and his chest doesn’t feel so tight when listening to it at full volume.

Mr. Stark discovered that fact, and now it’s the only thing he plays when Peter’s in the lab. Well, not necessarily just Pachelbel. Any instrumental songs, most of which come from movie scores or television themes or piano covers of popular songs.

So, basically, Peter just plays Canon in D on loop until he starts to get sleepy.

Right now, he’s drawing a flower field in the corner of his paper because his brain has shut down. Like, he doesn’t even know what’s going on. He’s lost all grip on reality. It feels like a fog. He’s 90% sure he’s dreaming. But it’s fine, he’s fine.

He sounds just like Tony.

The exhaustion has settled into his muscles, and everything in him is begging him to just close his eyes and sleep. But he can’t trust the promise that nightmares will not come for him, so he struggles to stay awake. If he has to get up and drink another soda, so be it. He’s not going to sleep.

He cranks his music louder and waits for his alarm to go off.

X-X-X-X-X

He gets coffee the next morning.

He hates coffee. He swore to himself that he’d never drink the devil’s juice.

Look at him now.

He takes a look at the black liquid steaming in front of him, the bitter smell reaching his nose, and all he wants to do is throw it away.

But he spent money on it.

He shuts his eyes tightly and takes a sip. It burns the back of his throat, and he wants to spit it out.

It tastes awful. It’s not the devil’s juice; it’s the devil’s piss.

He finishes it.

It’s enough of a wake-me-up that he manages to get through first period without incident. Second period is, well…more of a stretch.

He almost falls asleep during third.

Ned nudges him with his shoulder and nods to the front of the room, where their government teacher is trying to explain the loophole the Constitution offers the government. MJ sits next to them, her chin propped in her hand as she listens attentively for any “alternative facts,” as they’re sometimes known.

Peter nods and rubs his eyes, trying to pay attention. Ned leans over and whispers something to MJ, who purses her lips and nods.

Mr. Schelton taps his fingers nervously against his podium, licking his lips every few seconds. “The United States could be turned into a dictatorship,” he says, “if any branch of government is smart enough to find the contradiction in the Constitution.”

It’s a scary thought, Peter thinks, and he hopes it never comes true.

But even still, there’s always that possibility.

Peter bends his head over his notebook and takes notes that translate to chicken scratch.

God, he’s tired.

X-X-X-X-X

In between passing period, MJ shoulders her way through the masses of teenagers and shoves a thermos at him. “Drink,” she says.

He eyes her warily. He doesn’t trust coffee. Or MJ. Or coffee from MJ.

“Drink,” she says again.

He won’t lie – he’s a little scared of her. So he takes a sip of the steaming liquid, and is pleasantly surprised to taste chamomile tea. “This is good,” he says, trying to hand it back to her.

She shakes his head. “Keep it. Wash the thermos and get it back to me on Monday. You need it more than I do, and it tastes way better than coffee.”

Peter nods in agreement.

“Also, you need to get some sleep. I don’t know what’s going on with you, but you seriously need to rest or else your grades will slip. If your grades slip too much, you’re ineligible for Decathlon, and if you’re ineligible, Flash is in.” She shudders. “I can’t handle that.”

He nods, swallowing the tea before he speaks again. “Yeah, yeah, just…nightmares, you know? And homework and all, so, uh…yeah.”

“Don’t be an idiot, Parker.” With that, Michelle turns on her heel and disappears into the crowd.

Peter just shrugs and heads to his next class.

X-X-X-X-X

Happy picks him up.

Really, Peter’s too tired to talk the man’s ear off, and Happy seems a little relieved. Peter sets his backpack on the seat beside him and unzips it, pulling out his Spanish reading.

Like it’s not bad enough that he can barely read in his native language at this point, but he now has to do it in a completely foreign language. He’s not fluent; he knows phrases here and there, and now he has to read an entire section.

Yeah. It’s not going to be a fun ride.

Up front, Happy fiddles with the radio, switching between classical and jazz. Peter almost asks him to leave it on the classical station, but he doesn’t.

He eventually decides on classical music, turning it down enough that it won’t bother Peter.

His pen scratches against the paper, and he tilts his textbook slightly to the left, using it as a makeshift desk.

“So, uh…” Happy says about thirty minutes into the ride, “how’s school?”

Peter looks up, shocked that Happy would willingly converse with him. “Uh, i-it’s going.” His voice is small, and he’s too tired to speak up.

“How’s that girl?”

“Cool, I guess.” All he really wants to do right now is sleep, but he’s scared of his dreams. He’s scared that he’ll wake up in a cold sweat, and Happy will tell Mr. Stark that the lack of sleep is actually not because Peter’s swamped with school, and then Peter will be grounded by both Mr. Stark and May, and then it will start this entire situation all over again.

So, no. He’s not going to sleep until his body literally forces him to.

When Peter walks into the compound about twenty minutes after the attempted conversation, he makes a beeline for the kitchen, hoping to God that Tony won’t be in there.

He’s not that lucky.

Tony lifts his head when he hears Peter’s steps, and his hand is lifted in a wave before he freezes. “What’s wrong, kid?”

Peter’s eyes widen in surprise. “Oh, uh…school, you know. So much homework, right?”

Tony shakes his head. “No.”

“I have a lot of stuff to do, Mr. Stark!”

“It’s something else. Why aren’t you sleeping?” Tony sets down the butter knife he’d been holding and turns his full attention to Peter.

Peter briefly considers telling him about the nightmares: flying in the air with no protection, nearly being killed (multiple times, mind you) in one night, Ben’s death, the list goes on and on and on. But when he looks into Tony’s eyes, and when he sees Tony’s somewhat labored breathing, he says, “Just…school is rough.”

Tony walks over to Peter and grips his shoulders, staring deep into his eyes. “Don’t lie to me, kid.”

Peter sighs and shrugs Tony off of him. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“If you’re this sleep-deprived, you’re going to need to talk about it. Besides, if you don’t tell anyone, then no one can help you.”

Peter doesn’t talk back. He doesn’t disrespect adults (well, not as Peter Parker; Spider-man is a different story). He normally just agrees or nods and then goes on his merry.

Now, however, he’s not exactly in the same place physically or mentally, so, well, it’s a bit of a shock when he says, “I’m not telling you a damn thing.”

Tony sighs. “Peter –”

“You’re not my dad or my guardian. You can’t tell me what to do. If I don’t feel like telling you, then damn right, I’m not going to tell you!”

Tony’s more shocked by Peter’s outburst than his actual words. “What has gotten into you, kid?”

“Nothing! Just get off my back!”

Tony shakes his head and takes a step forward. “Oh, no, you don’t. You don’t get to tell me off. I’m the adult here, and you need help.”

Peter knows enough to take a step back from Tony when he’s angry at him. It’s not often that this happens; the last time, in fact, was at the ferry.

“You have never sassed me before, and I want to know why the hell you’re doing so now.” He gestures with both hands. “So spill. What is it?”

There’s a tense moment of silence while Peter decides whether or not to actually tell him. Finally, he turns around without a word, and the tension in the air is so thick it could be cut with a knife. “Whatever,” he mumbles.

And, behind him, he can feel Tony’s eyes burning into the back of his skull.

X-X-X-X-X

He throws his backpack onto his chair as soon as he walks into his room.

Really, he doesn’t know what to do or what he should do.

His homework’s done. There’s no patrolling this weekend. Tony’s pissed at him.

The only thing left is sleep. Lord knows he needs it.

With a groan, Peter gets under the covers and turns off the lamp. He leans over his bedside and picks one of the books stacked in the space between his nightstand and his bed. The cover reads “Fire Bringer” with the name “David Clement-Davies” inscribed at the bottom.

Another of MJ’s recommendations.

With a sigh, he opens the book and begins to read, hoping it will make him sleepy enough that he’ll just pass out.

It doesn’t take long before darkness wraps around him, and it’s so comfortable and so soft that he falls into it.

He doesn’t expect the nightmares.

X-X-X-X-X

It’s a bullet whizzing past him, and all he does is step aside. He hears his uncle calling for him, and he’s kneeling beside him, trying to cover up a gaping wound to no avail. He’s calling for help and he’s crying and he’s praying, but none of it seems to work, even when his voice breaks, even when it turns raw.

And then he’s wrapped in a parachute, feeling the cloth close over his mouth as he tries to get it off. The water seeps into his suit, and the parachute is pressing down on him and forcing him deeper, deeper, deeper still. His back meets the ground, and he’s trying to kick it off, trying to push it off, trying to get it off in any way he knows how.

His muscles strain with the effort of holding the ferry together. He’s crying under that mask, and his joints are popping and creaking. People are going to die. Oh, God, people are gonna die and it’s all gonna be his fault, really, why couldn’t he have seen that coming –

He’s in the air without a parachute, without wings, without anything but a man hell-bent on taking him down. He almost flies into the engine, and somehow he manages to climb onto the wing and turn the plane. After all, it’s New York City and everyone knows about that thing with the planes from ’01.

And then the Vulture’s claws dig into his chest, pressing into his sternum as he flies up and pushes Peter back into the ground. It hurts, and his head snaps back, and his skull erupts with white-hot pain. His wrist hurts. Everything hurts. He could die. Here. Now. With no one around to help him. But he does what he always does: he fights back, and even when his entire body screams at him to leave Toomes behind in that fire, he runs into it and brings him out, too.

But what keeps coming back, the memory that is most clear, is the warehouse. Where he’s calling for help as loud as he can, but no one is close enough to hear. Where concrete presses further down on him with each movement he makes, where his sweat mixes with dust. Something digs into his calf, and a slab lies on one of his wrists. It hurts. Corners are pressing into his back, opening new wounds that his healing factor may not be able to compensate for. And he’s alone, alone, all alone, and he’s fifteen and he’s scared and he doesn’t want to die.

In the back of his mind, he can hear rushed footsteps and a light turns on. His eyes open, and he’s still shaking and crying, but Tony’s already pulling him into his chest.

“It’s okay, kid, I’ve got you, it’s okay.”

Peter forgets about embarrassment. He curls into him as much as Mr. Stark will let him.

Tony’s hand rests against the nape of Peter’s neck, and he gently rocks them both. Peter rests his fists against Tony’s chest, and Tony continues to rock them.

“Please don’t leave me, I’m so scared, oh God.” Peter’s voice cracks with the last word, and Tony pulls him closer, as if that was even possible.

“I’m not going anywhere, kid. I’m right here.”

Peter just sobs into Tony’s shirt.

He’s acting like a little kid, and at any other time he’d be embarrassed, but right now, he wants someone to hold him and tell him it’ll be alright. He is still a kid, he is still a kid, he’s treated like an adult, but he is still a kid.

“I ate a bagel this morning. Blueberry bagel, actually. I hate blueberry bagels. But I ate one. And then I went down to the lab and worked on Mark 986, and he’s really cool. I can’t wait for you to see him.” Tony is still rocking him, still holding him tightly to his chest. Peter’s about to ask why Tony’s telling him about his day when he realizes: he’s trying to get Peter’s mind off his nightmares.

“It was pretty uneventful, actually. I didn’t even have any meetings. I mean, I guess I could’ve worked a little bit more on the Accords, but I didn’t feel like it.”

Peter nods.

“God, you’re just a kid.” It’s quiet, barely even a breath, but Peter hears it. “You shouldn’t have to deal with this.”

He’s still shaking, and Tony’s still rocking him, and he’s so scared that he can’t even speak.

“I’ve got you, kid. I’ve got you.”

He believes him.

Eventually, Peter stops crying and he relaxes a little bit. Tony releases him. “You seriously need to get some sleep, kid. I’m going to be right here; I’m not going anywhere.”

Peter nods and wipes his eyes. He doesn’t trust his voice, but he asks, “Can you turn on some music? Please?” Ugh. He sounds syrupy.

There is no hint of humor in Tony’s eyes – only concern. He nods faintly. “Of course.” He stands and pulls Peter’s chair over beside the bed, tapping his watch once before sitting down. The soft notes of Pachelbel begin playing, and Tony settles into his seat, watching Peter closely.

Once Peter hears the familiar music, he relaxes into his bed. He’s safe; Tony’s right by him. He closes his eyes, and mercifully, sleep comes upon him.

There’s no dreams, no nightmares. Just unconscious bliss.

X-X-X-X-X

He wakes up ten hours later.

Tony’s still sitting in the chair beside his bed, scrolling through what Peter can only assume is either something really important or simply his Twitter feed. He looks up and sees that Peter’s awake.

“Rise and shine, kiddo.”

Peter groans and buries his face into the pillow. “I haven’t slept that long in ages.”

From his periphery, he can see Tony nodding. “Yeah, I know. Did you know that, ideally, you should be getting eight to ten hours of sleep? Because I don’t think you do.”

The pillow is so warm, and the weight of the blankets is grounding. “School,” he says in response.

Tony waves his hand. “Yep. I don’t expect eight hours from you. Hell, I don’t even expect you to sleep for anything more than six hours a night. But only three hours in the span of five days? Kid, you’re going to be the actual death of me.”

Peter pushes himself up. “What’s there to eat?”

Tony drops his phone into his lap. “Well, kid, we’ve got breakfast, we’ve got lunch, we’ve got dinner. If you want brunch, we’ve got brunch. Up to you.”

Peter sits up fully. “Eggs and bacon?”

Tony nods. “How do you like your eggs?”

“Scrambled with some grated cheese.”

He raises his eyes but doesn’t question Peter’s taste. “Alrightie then.” He slaps his knees. “Come on, then. You get to help me.”

Peter stands and follows Tony into the kitchen. “Is anyone else here?” When Tony tosses him a raised eyebrow, he clarifies further. “I mean, I know Happy and Vision are. Anyone else?”

Tony cocks his head to the side. “Rhodey actually just went to the grocery store. Bruce is coming tomorrow. Other than that, they’re all…” He waves his hand ambiguously. “Not here.”

He nods. “Cool.”

Tony opens the refrigerator and pulls out a carton of eggs. “The pepper’s in the drawer by the stove if you want any. Same with all the other spices.” He grabs two juice cartons and sets them on the counter. Sidestepping behind Peter, he opens the cabinets above Peter’s head and pulls out a measuring cup, pointing with his free hand to the cabinets by Peter’s knees. “Skillet’s in there.”

Peter bends down and grabs the handle of one of the skillets. He reaches behind him, and he can feel Tony take it from him.

“Thank you, kind sir. Bacon’s in the freezer. I’ll take over the eggs if you’ll cook the bacon.”

“Sure,” Peter says, walking around the kitchen island back to the fridge.

“So, uh,” Tony says, cracking one egg into the measuring cup, “what did you learn in school yesterday?”

“Gödel’s loophole.” Peter rips open the package. “It’s pretty cool, actually.”

Tony pulls open a drawer, grabs a whisk, and then shuts it again. “What’s that?”

“Article five in the Constitution talks about the process of amendment. Basically, we could potentially amend ourselves into a dictatorship.”

“Sounds fun.”

It doesn’t take long for the food to finish, and they eat in silence. Peter eats his eggs so quickly that Tony’s 98% sure that he literally inhaled them, and Tony’s only left with three slices of bacon and a piece of toast.

Spider metabolism. It’s a thing.

And also, teenage metabolism. Combine the two and an unstoppable force is created.

Honestly, if Peter didn’t have super strength or spidey senses, his super power would be eating.

“So, uh, Pete,” Tony begins, picking at his napkin. Peter’s chowing through his fourth piece of cinnamon toast, and he’s currently contemplating calling Rhodey to tell him to pick up more food. “What were your nightmares about?”

Peter visibly deflates and sets his half-finished toast on his plate. “Just…a lot of stuff. Ben and the ferry incident, mostly.”

Tony almost accepts that as an answer, almost lets it be at that. But he’s staring at the kid, and he’s avoiding eye contact, and he knows there’s more to it than just some bad memories including two different father figures. “No,” he says softly.

Peter furrows his brows. “No?”

“No,” Tony repeats. “What else?”

Peter scratches the tip of his nose and sighs. “Toomes…h-he dropped a storehouse on me. I was alone and scared and there was no one to help me.” He closes his eyes and shakes his head against an unwelcome memory. “I thought I was going to die,” he whispers.

And, boy, does it feel like a punch to Tony’s stomach.

He took away that suit. He further endangered Peter’s life.

“And then I went after him after I got out, and…the plane, it just…I had no parachute, no wings, nothing to help me if I fell, and he was trying to kill me and I almost flew into the engine and it was on fire and you know, 9/11 and all that, so I was scared, people on the ground were scared, and I just…” He wipes away some tears before they can fall. “It’s terrifying, swinging around in New York with all those skyscrapers. And, like, I know that I have a parachute and wings, and you’ll always try and catch me if I fall, but…I remember what it was like up there, and that scares me.”

For the first time in his life, Tony is rendered speechless.

There’s someone else who’s gone through just as much as he has, but it’s not an adult, it’s a kid, and that kid is sitting right in front of him with a half-eaten piece of toast on his plate and homework that’s due Monday.

And he’s terrified.

After a few moments of silence, Peter hesitantly picks up his toast and finishes it. The crunching awkwardly breaks the silence, and Tony still has no idea of what to say.

Finally, he taps his fingers against the surface of the table. “I know it’s not much,” he says, his chin propped in his hand, “but what do you say we try out flying again? No flying monster this time, just Spider-man and Iron Man doing flips outside.”

Peter just looks at him, and Tony’s answering the question before he can ask it.

“I’ll catch you if you fall.” It’s a promise, and Peter knows as well as Tony that it’s not limited just to a training exercise outside. It’s firmer than that, it’s serious, and Tony is not going to leave this table until Peter understands that.

And, maybe, in the future, it could be a promise that sticks in Tony’s throat, one that reminds him of a moment of pure panic, but right now, at this moment in time, it’s reassuring. If Peter falls, he’ll catch him. End of story.

Peter hesitates and then he nods. “Sounds fun.”

Tony purses his lips. “Good.”

They suit up, and Tony explains how it’ll all go down. At first it’s awkward for Peter, having to wrap his arms around Iron Man’s neck. But as time goes on and as the flips become more and more fun, he lets himself freefall for a moment before he shoots a web at Tony’s foot. The exhilaration of being dragged along is incredible, and he begins swinging around the compound again.

And as Tony watches from the corner of his eye, he sees something that terrifies him:

A boy that will die flying.

**Author's Note:**

> Ayo if any have Tony & Peter & Harley fic requests, can you hmu because I am reAdy for that.


End file.
